A Tragedy of Love and Hate

OR

A WOMAN’S VOW

BY

BERTHA M. CLAY

AUTHOR OF

“The Duke’s Secret,” “The Earl’s Error,” “Lord Lynne’s Choice,” “The Earl’s Atonement,” “The Gipsy’s Daughter,” “Dora Thorne,” etc.

NEW YORK

STREET & SMITH, Publishers

Copyright, 1899, 1900 and 1903 By STREET & SMITH

A Tragedy of Love and Hate

[Pg 5]

A TRAGEDY OF LOVE AND HATE.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. THE TRAGEDY.

The great bough of a spreading maple tree was swaying to and fro in the summer wind, a shapely bough covered with green leaves. On it sat a little bird, swaying with the branch, singing as though the world were all summer and sunshine and there was no winter to follow—singing of brighter suns than men see shine, heaven-taught music, not understood by mortal ears, while the golden, fragrant air around seemed to grow silent and listen.

For it was summertime, and the flowers were blooming; the earth was fair and smiling, the sky blue; there was a hush in the green woods and a ripple on the waters, a golden haze in the air.

Holme Woods looked very beautiful in their summer dress; great sheets of blue hyacinths spread far and wide, fragrant clusters of violets nestled against the roots of the trees, birds caroled in the shady branches.

The river Lee ran through Holme Woods, and where the large maple tree stood it formed a clear, limpid pool. The swaying bough bent over it, and the shadow of the singing bird fell in the water.

Was it suddenly the song changed? the jubilant notes, so shrill, so clear and sweet, died away, and a mournful[Pg 6] dirge took their place? was it fancy, or was it really so? The bird saw what men could not see—the deed done that morning in the shade of the summer woods.

For in the water, her long, fair hair entangled in the lilies and reeds, her dead face turned to the shining skies, lay a woman drowned—drowned that very morning, while the sun shone and the flowers bloomed.

Perhaps the little singing bird had been for some hours on the branch; perhaps it had heard all, wondering what was happening.

It might have been that a death cry roused it and disturbed its song, then, when the cry had risen appealingly to the very face of the heavens, and died away, it had left its soft, warm nest to sway on the bending branch and look into the water to see what terrible sight was there.

Surely earth holds no more cruel sight than a fair woman dead, than the sun shining warm, bright and golden on a dead white face.

Sometimes the ripples flowed more quickly, and then they washed over the face that in life had been beautiful and proud; sometimes the wind blew more freshly, and the leaves bent over it as though they would fain kiss it into warm, sweet life again. Yet for long hours, while the sun shone, while the bees gathered honey, while the merry brown hares went leaping, while the birds built their nests, while in the meadows men cut down the dried clover, while in far-off cities they toiled for daily bread, while the business, and pleasure, and work of the world went on, the quiet figure lay there without life or motion, and the quiet face gleamed so white and still. For though she was mistress of a proud and magnificent home, though she was courted and flattered and received the homage of all who knew her, she had not yet been missed. That evening she was engaged to dine with a large and brilliant party at Westfield Place, on the morrow[Pg 7] she was to give a brilliant fête in her own grounds; but never more would Lady Clarice Alden

shine fairest and proudest of women. She who had ruled men with a smile and a look, whose lightest word was a command, whose least caprice a law, lay there drowned and dead, no one knowing, no eyes to gaze upon her save those of the little bird singing on the branch.

The morning passed on; the heat increased, the ripples grew languid, as though it were too warm for the river to run, a purple haze came in place of the golden light, the birds drooped on the wing, the bees hummed in the bells of the flowers, the butterflies rested on the fragrant hearts of the wild roses—sultry noon had set in, yet the white face only grew more rigid and fixed. They had not missed her from her stately home, she who was never to enter it again.

How much longer would it have lasted? How much longer would the bird have swayed while the death dirge came from its tiny beak? The brooding stillness was suddenly disturbed by the sharp, shrill bark of a dog; there was a rustling of leaves, and then a pretty little King Charles ran to the water’s edge.

There was something of human sagacity in the look that he gave at the dead face. Then, as though he knew what had happened, he turned back, barking furiously, tearing in wild haste through the woods. Again the brooding stillness fell and the heat grew again, the sleepy ripples barely touched the face, and the fair hair entangled in the water lilies was faintly stirred.

Another long, silent hour, and then down the path that led to the river came a woman—a pretty, bright, well-dressed girl—evidently, from her appearance, a lady’s maid; the little dog was barking round her, pulling her dress with his teeth if she seemed to stop or hesitate. Then her eyes fell on the white, upturned face. She gave[Pg 8] a terrible cry, and stood for one moment as though she were turned to stone; then another and still more awful cry came from her lips.

“Oh, my God!” she said, “what shall I do?”

There was a ghastly terror in her face as she turned to fly—terror that was beyond words. One, meeting her, with those white, parted lips and wild eyes, would have thought she was fleeing from something worse than death itself.

The parted branches closed behind her, and again the hot, brooding silence fell over the trees and the water, and the drowned woman lying so helplessly there.

But it was not for long this time; very soon it was broken by wild cries and hoarse voices; by the shrill barking of dogs; by the noisy parting of boughs, and the screams of women.

There was help at last; help sufficient to have saved a dozen women from danger and death—but it was all too late. The quiet sanctuary of death was rudely invaded; the birds flew away in fright; the bluebells were trampled under foot. Lady Clarice Alden was missed at last, and this was where her servants found her.

Strong men raised the silent figure and laid it on the grass.

Then one could see it was the body of a young and most beautiful woman, richly dressed. A long robe of blue silk and white lace clung to the perfect limbs; there were rings on the fingers; a costly bracelet on one arm; a golden chain of rare beauty round the neck; a watch, small and richly jeweled; brooches and earrings. Very ghastly the rich jewels looked on the dead body.

“Is she really dead?” cried the maid who had been the first to find her, Mary Thorne. She knelt down by Lady Alden’s side. With trembling fingers she opened the silken robe, and placed her hand on the quiet heart.

[Pg 9]

“It does not beat,” she cried. “Oh, my lady, my lady is dead!”

An elderly man, who had been butler at Aldenmere for many years, assumed the command.

“Tear down some of those big branches,” he said, “and make a litter of them, then carry your lady to the house. You, Griffiths, saddle the fleetest horse in the stable and ride to Leeholme; bring both doctors with you. Hunter, you take Sir Ronald’s own horse and go in search of him; does any one know where he went?”

“Sir Ronald is gone to Thurston,” replied one of the grooms. “I saddled his horse this morning before ten.”

“Then you will be able to find him. Do not tell him the news suddenly, Hunter; tell him first that my lady is ill, and he is wanted at once at home.”

His directions were quickly followed out; they tore down the branch on which the bird had been swaying and singing, the bird flew frightened away. They carried her home, through the sunny glades of the park, crushing the sweet flowers under foot; and it was thus that Lady Clarice Alden was brought for the last time to her own home.

CHAPTER II. WHO KILLED LADY CLARICE?

The news spread like lightning; the men, as they rode furiously in search of her husband and doctor, told the story to those who listened with horror-stricken faces.

“Lady Alden of Aldenmere has been drowned in the river Lee, that part called the Pool, in Holme Woods.”

In the meantime they had carried the body of the hapless lady to her own chamber; the weeping, terrified servants filled the room, and Mrs. Glynn, the housekeeper,[Pg 10] armed with authority, sent them all away except Mary Thorne. They laid her on the sumptuous bed, with its pink silk and white lace hangings; they wrung the water from her long, fair hair, and then there came the sound of an arrival.

“All the doctors on earth could not help her, poor lady,” said Mrs. Glynn, with a long-drawn sigh. But the doctors came in and tried their best.

“Stone dead—she has been dead over two hours,” said Dr. Mayne. “How did it happen?”

Before there was time for a reply the door opened again, and Sir Ronald Alden, the lady’s husband, master of Aldenmere, entered.

He walked quickly up to the bedside and his eyes fell upon the silent figure lying there. The ghastly fear in his face deepened as he gazed.

“What is it?” he said, clutching Dr. Mayne’s arm. “What has happened—what is this?”

“You must bear it bravely, Sir Ronald,” said the doctor, pityingly. “Lady Alden has met with a terrible accident.”

He bent over her with trembling hands and wild, desperate horror in his face.

“She is dead?” he cried.

“Yes,” said the doctor, quietly; “she is dead. Poor lady; she has been dead for two hours.”

Sir Ronald sank back in a chair. He repeated the words with a gasping sob, more terrible than tears.

“Dead!” he said, “my wife—Clarice—dead!”

They went away, doctors and servants, thinking it would be better to leave him alone with his dead, to give him time for the first sharp pain to vent itself in tears and words.

But to their surprise, in a few minutes he followed them, with the ghastly pallor on his face.

[Pg 11]

“How did it happen?” he cried; “you have not told me that.”

“We do not know,” replied Dr. Mayne. “It has all been so strange, so awfully sudden. Half an hour ago one of your grooms galloped over to my house and told me Lady Alden had been found drowned in the river. I came at once, and found she had been dead two hours and more. You will hear more details from the servants.”

“You are sure she is dead?” he repeated. “There have been wonderful cases of resuscitation after apparent drowning. Has all been done that is possible?”

“Only God could restore her to life,” said the doctor, reverently. While the words were yet on his lips, the door of the library opened and the housekeeper came in, looking so ill and alarmed that Dr. Mayne went near to her.

“Oh, sir!” she cried, “will you come upstairs?—will you come up to my lady’s room?”

“Certainly.” And the doctor, wondering much what had happened, rose to go.

“Stay!” said Sir Ronald. “What is it, Mrs. Glynn?”

“I cannot tell you, Sir Ronald, it is too horrible. My lady was not drowned.”

“Not drowned!” they repeated.

“No,” said the woman, with a shudder; “it is worse than that.”

Dr. Mayne waited to hear no more; he went to the poor lady’s room at once; Sir Ronald followed him. There they found the maid wringing her hands and crying aloud that it was a wicked and a cruel deed.

“Tell me what it is,” said the doctor, firmly.

Then Mrs. Glynn turned down the blue satin quilt.

“Look, sir,” she said; “when we began to undress the poor lady we found this.”

[Pg 12]

Dr. Mayne bent down and saw through the silken robe and fine white linen a cut made by some sharp instrument, evidently very small and pointed. He tore away the dress, and there on the white skin was a deep wound just over the heart. Only a few drops of blood had fallen from it; it was not large enough for a knife to have done it, it must have been caused by some sharp instrument long enough to have pierced the heart.

“How awful!” cried the doctor, hoarsely; “why, Lady Alden has been murdered—murdered, I say, Sir Ronald, and flung into the water—look!”

Sir Ronald bent down and saw the mark.

“She has been stabbed through the heart. She must have died in an instant, and then have been thrown into the water. This is no accident, but foul, black, treacherous murder! I cannot even imagine what weapon has been used. It was evidently not much larger than a common bodkin, but long and sharp. Who can have done such a deed, Sir Ronald?”

“I cannot tell; she had not an enemy in the world. I cannot guess.”

“You had better come away from this room,” said the doctor, compassionately; “we can do no good; it only makes you wretched.”

“I will go to my room,” said Sir Ronald, hoarsely; “I—I cannot bear it, doctor—you must see to everything for me.”

And Sir Ronald, with tottering steps, went from the death chamber, where the horror seemed to be deepening every hour, and Dr. Mayne was left to do the best he could.

“It is too horrible,” he said to Mrs. Glynn. “I do not think such an event ever happened before in the memory of man. Will you see that one of the grooms goes at[Pg 13] once to Leeholme and brings back the inspector of police?—there is no time to lose.”

If the little bird which had sung upon the branches could have spoken and have told what had happened that summer morning in the Holme Woods!

CHAPTER III. AN OPEN VERDICT.

Three days had passed since the tragedy that cast such gloom over the whole neighborhood had occurred; three long, dreary days. Outside the world was in full beauty, fair, smiling summer flung her treasures with a reckless hand; the sun was bright and the flowers sweet; inside the stately mansion all was darkness, horror and gloom.

Murder is always terrible. It is so seldom known among the higher classes that when a young and lovely woman like Lady Alden is its victim the sensation caused is something terrible.

A reckless, brutal, drunken collier murders his wife, and though his neighbors shake their heads and say it is a terrible thing, the idea of a murder is unhappily too familiar to them to excite the disgust, the repugnance and horror felt among a more cultivated and refined class.

But the murder of Lady Alden created a profound impression through the whole kingdom; the papers were filled with it; any little detail that could throw additional light on the subject was most eagerly grasped. Several popular daily papers sent their special reporters down to Leeholme. The circulation of the Daily Wonder increased marvelously, because each morning there was something fresh to say on the subject of “The Terrible[Pg 14] Tragedy in High Life,” and yet, write, guess, imagine what they would, there was no glimmer of truth in anything written or said.

Round Leeholme the sensation had been almost terrible. Dr. Mayne, left to take the entire management of the business, had promptly sent for the superintendent of police, Captain Johnstone, and had given him carte blanche.

“Spare no money, no time, no labor,” he said, “but let the criminal be found. Sir Ronald is too ill, too overwhelmed, to give any orders at present; but you know what should be done. Do it promptly.”

And Captain Johnstone had at once taken every necessary step. There was something ghastly in the pretty town of Leeholme, for there on the walls was the placard, worded:

“MURDER!

“Two hundred pounds will be given to any one bringing certain information as to a murder committed on Tuesday morning, June 19th, in the Holme Woods. Apply to Captain Johnstone, Police Station, Leeholme.”

Gaping rustics read it, and while they felt heartily sorry for the unhappy lady they longed to know something about it for the sake of the reward.

But no one called on Captain Johnstone—no one had a word either of certainty or surmise. The police officers, headed by intelligent men, made diligent search in the neighborhood of the pool; but nothing was found. There was no mark of any struggle; the soft, thick grass gave no sign of heavy footsteps. No weapon could be found, no trace of blood-stained fingers. It was all a mystery dark as night, without one gleam of light.

The pool had always been a favorite place with the hapless lady; and, knowing that, Sir Ronald had ordered[Pg 15] a pretty, quaint golden chair to be placed there for her; and on the very morning when the event happened Lady Clarice Alden had taken her book and had gone to the fatal spot to enjoy the beauty of the morning, the brightness of the sun and the odor of the flowers. The book she had been reading lay on the ground, where it had evidently fallen from her hands. But there was no sign of anything wrong; the bluebells had not even been trampled under foot.

After twenty-four hours’ search the police relinquished the matter. Captain Johnstone instituted vigorous inquiries as to all the beggars and tramps who had been in the neighborhood—nothing suspicious came to light. One man, a traveling hawker, a gaunt, fierce-looking man, with a forbidding face, had been passing through Holme Woods, and the police tracked him; but when he was examined he was so evidently unconscious and ignorant of the whole matter it would have been folly to detain him.

In the stately mansion of Aldenmere a coroner’s inquest had been held. Mrs. Glynn declared that it was enough to make the family portraits turn on the wall—enough to bring the dead to life. Such a desecration as that had never occurred before. But the coroner was very grave. Such a murder, he said, was a terrible thing; the youth, beauty and position of the lady made it doubly horrible. He showed the jury how intentional the murder must have been—it was no deed done in hot haste. Whoever had crept with stealthy steps to the lady’s side, whoever had placed his hand underneath the white lace mantle which she wore, and with desperate, steady aim stabbed her to the heart, had done it purposely and had meditated over it. The jury saw that the white lace mantle must either have been raised or a hand stealthily crept[Pg 16] beneath it, for the cut that pierced the bodice of the dress was not in the mantle.

He saw the red puncture on the white skin. One of the jury was a man who had traveled far and wide.

“It was with no English weapon this was done,” he said. “I remember a case very similar when I was staying in Sicily; a man there was killed, and there was no other wound on his body save a small red circle like this; afterward I saw the very weapon that he had been slain with.”

“What was it like?” asked the coroner eagerly.

“A long, thin, very sharp instrument, a species of Sicilian dagger. I heard that years ago ladies used to wear them suspended from the waist as a kind of ornament. I should not like to be too certain, but it seems to me this wound has been caused by the same kind of weapon.”

By the coroner’s advice the suggestion was not made public.

The verdict returned was one the public had anticipated: “Willful murder against some person or persons unknown.”

Then the inquest was over, and nothing remained but to bury Lady Clarice Alden. Dr. Mayne, however, had not come to the end of his resources yet.

“The local police have failed,” he said to Sir Ronald; “we will send to Scotland Yard at once.”

And Sir Ronald bade him do whatever in the interests of justice he considered best.

In answer to his application came Sergeant Hewson, who was generally considered the shrewdest and cleverest man in England.

“If Sergeant Hewson gives a thing up, no one else can succeed,” was a remark of general use in the profession.[Pg 17] He seemed to have an instinctive method of finding out that which completely baffled others.